


I was born on a day when God was sick, gravely.

by jumex_depeach



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, mentions of parental trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24750412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumex_depeach/pseuds/jumex_depeach
Summary: "In the back of his mind a small fear of him dying in his sleep would pop up, even if he wished he did at times, the unknown possibility was scarier than the purposeful one. There’s a difference between expecting to wake up and it just being black. And consciousness is nonexistent. He really doesn’t know what death is like, but the coma he was in for a few months gave hint. Or maybe it didn’t and he was thinking nothing but complete bullshit."A character piece about a moody dude and his moody boyfriend, and all that life has thrown at them thus far. Contemplation about traumas and how to grow from them, or at least the desire to be better.
Relationships: Amata Almodovar/Male Lone Wanderer (mentioned), Butch DeLoria/Male Lone Wanderer
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	I was born on a day when God was sick, gravely.

**Author's Note:**

> You could consider this a spiritual successor to an old piece of mine "Windswept". I'd like to think it at least shows how much my writing has hopefully improved and grown. It is also weirdly a sequel to Night On Earth, 2277. Just with time discrepancies because I'm lazy ! It also has a very big self indulgent aspect to it, which will be obvious I'm sure. Anyways I really liked writing this and how it came out, I hope u guys like it too :-) ! 
> 
> comments are appreciated but kudos' do just as fine, yeehaw

It was so unpleasant that Saturday, not that he knew quite yet, but he could feel it. Intuition. Because it was not just any Saturday, no it was _The Saturday._ It wasn’t a year anniversary of being spit out of the vault’s womb yet, but it was his first birthday outside of the vault. It was his first birthday without his dad, his first birthday as an orphan ; it was his first birthday with that awful fucking moniker, like a curse and yet the only meaningful label to his existence. July the 13th of 2278, the worst Saturday in his fucking life. As far as he can remember, he cannot recall the day his dad died. And does not want to. 

He is staring at his pip-boy resting on the bedside table, the muted green vaguely illuminating the small circumference around it. It was dark out still, but he could begin to hear the loitering twee of hermit thrush which meant the sunrise was close. They were the only thing to bring solace to his day, it was unfortunate that they were only heard in the morning. The highlight of his day, to be swept away so quickly as the sun would rise and rise then fall and fall. Repeat, repeat.  
If he turned around, would the same body still be beside him as it has been for months on end ? It was a habit to check every morning now. It was something neither of them would have ever expected to happen in their lifetimes, to be so close to one another, so intimate. To be cared for, loved even ; accepted, even begrudgingly on the bad days.  
A twist of his torso and neck confirmed it once more, Butch was fast asleep next to him. Just the same as the day before, the week before, the months before. If Andrés couldn’t find the will inside of himself to force himself back to sleep, he’d stare at Butch. Noticing tiny details like the way Butch’s left eyebrow had an uneven hair pattern due to a bullet grazing it. He remembers that day well, helping rinse the blood that gotten into Butch’s eye out ; it turned out one raider had enough pep to get back up, and try to hit him on the back of the head with some tetanus infested pipe. But Butch reached for the pistol quick enough, and the bullet went straight through the trachea on the poor, dumb fuck. It was quite a romantic testament. Butch received a kiss on the cheek for it.

He turned to lay on his back, and listened to the thrush choir grow in number slowly. If only he could enjoy this moment of time forever, continuously, and forget about everything shitty that had ever happened to him. Just the good, only the good. But that was another wish, he would not be granted. And the moment would end quickly, come the knot in his stomach causing his jaw to tighten and mouth to salivate uncomfortably. Reluctantly, yet tactfully he got up with as much grace as he could on his own. The only time he could without struggle. Keeping his groan quiet so he wouldn’t wake Butch, as he made his way to the bathroom next to their bedroom. The few steps, however short, made him glad they reinforced their floor with wood. Much nicer to walk on than cold metal. How did he do it for nineteen years in a hole in the ground ? Maybe that was one way he grew soft out here, rather than rough.  
Either way, now was not the time to reminisce and contemplate meaningless things such as that. Was lucky enough to reach the toilet in time, as he vomited up the same clear and viscous liquid. Day in and day out. There was no fight left in him, vacantly he’d hack up whatever was in his stomach till he was hollow. And he’d be left watching the string of saliva left over from the exertion thin out slowly and break, before he felt okay enough to lift his head up. He hated this routine, the monotony it brought, there really wasn’t a lot to think about during these times. Just focused on getting it out, let it end, make it stop. He’d rinse out his mouth at the sink, always, in case a kiss were to come his way. Still not used to them, the kind of intimacy that made his insides want to shrivel up ; he felt repulsive but they were a reminder that it wasn’t true. Each touch Butch gave him was a reminder.

Knock on the door, light, could here the weight switch between feet with the creak of the wood. He tried to hold back a sigh, there was still the deep resistance buried inside him to accept help. Hated being something to fuss over, felt bothersome, annoying. A whole list of words that permeated his thoughts every time, and stabbed at his nerves. There was a fear that Butch would get fed up with it, and leave, maybe that’s why he hated the attention in a way. Wanting to prevent a possibility, maybe an inevitability. Can’t run away from it though, not in his current state. Sometimes he wishes he just died like his dad. Maybe it would’ve been better than having to be hooked up to an IV of radaway all hours of the day, and vomiting even with nothing in your stomach. The daily nosebleeds. At least Butch didn’t call him by that nickname anymore. One time a joke was made, and Butch was left with his own due to it. At least he could still throw a punch.

Another knock on the door, throat still soaked in drowsiness, could hear it in the voice ; “You alive in there or what ?”

Must’ve been too in his own head to respond to the initial knock, he tends to make Butch repeat himself now due to it. Isn’t sure if he should feel bad about it or not. “I’m fine, just go back to bed. Sun’s not even up yet.”

“Yeah but them annoying fuckin’ birds are.” Followed by a yawn. 

The turn of the doorknob, and there they were facing each other. Another day of looking at one another, and not getting sick of it. Is this what love felt like ? Andrés couldn’t help but push some stray hairs out of Butch’s face, before they laced fingers and walked back to bed, leaning against one another. Subtle comforts.  
Every time they laid in bed, Butch would always tuck in the blanket around him, it was disgustingly sweet and it made him want to crawl out of his skin. Sometimes Butch would rest against his shoulder, and that would make it even worse. Butch would always fall asleep first, he couldn’t now that his body was aware of everything that was wrong with it again. In the back of his mind a small fear of him dying in his sleep would pop up, even if he wished he did at times, the unknown possibility was scarier than the purposeful one. There’s a difference between expecting to wake up and it just being black. And consciousness is nonexistent. He really doesn’t know what death is like, but the coma he was in for a few months gave hint. Or maybe it didn’t and he was thinking nothing but complete bullshit. 

Even if his life is nothing like he imagined it to be when he would talk about it to Amata during their sleepovers growing up, there are now places—people that would mourn him. That would be disappointing, discouraging, etc, to all those wastelanders ; he didn’t want to be a savior, he could’ve lived with being a martyr, but the savior part was frightening. He was no one special, just an orphan. However, in just a little under a month he’d have a new title to add onto the list. The most important of all next to his cursed _“Lone Wanderer”_. He was not ready for it, worst of all he was not expecting it. He was made aware only a week after he woke up from his several month coma. The initial shock of the news almost made him wish he never woke up. The only person he could’ve asked advice for it, has been dead since October of last year. And she would be born before then. He wonders if his dad was just as petrified about it as he is now. The holodisks he found in Jefferson Memorial told him differently, but he just wants to know he isn’t alone in his feelings. Despite the truth that he is. It’s now the main reason that even if he may want to die some days, he can’t, it’s now why he fears death just a little bit more. They haven’t decided on a name. But from what Amata writes, she would like it to start with _“A”_ like their own. 

Hermit thrush lull him to sleep briefly with their morning song ; he doesn’t dream like he used to anymore, in fact he hardly does at all now. There is no mourning for it though, it’s a break from the nightmares. When his eyes crack open, it’s from Dogmeat’s soft tongue lapping at the palm of his hand hanging off the bed. He moves it to pet at her fur absentmindedly as he waits for his body to slowly wake. She takes up too much space on the bed, so Butch won’t let her join them. But sometimes in the mornings he’ll let her jump up on the edge, and as she curls against his torso, he’ll hold her like he used to when it was just the two of them. One time Three Dog referred to her as his _“Guardian Angel”_ on air, and he couldn’t help but agree. She was the greatest dog to ever exist in his humble opinion.

Downstairs he could hear Wadsworth humming along to the jukebox, while Butch chided at him over something. The ruckus made him slightly curious and gave enough motivation to sit himself up despite the body aches that had already set in. A few moments of squeezing his eyes shut as he curled over in pain, and soon it’d be tolerable. Maybe he’d keep quiet about it, didn’t want to be hooked up to an IV today. He could take the pain. Dogmeat was patiently waiting in case he needed something to keep him steady anyhow, good dog. 

With a heave and a groan, he was up on his feet. “How’d I do today girl ?”

Dogmeat sneezed in response. 

A knock on the door alerted everyone in the house, but especially Dogmeat, a guard dog gone wild as she started barking for all of Megaton to hear. And caused Butch to release the most dramatically agitated sigh. He tried to hurry his steps to catch a peek of whoever decided to drop by unexpectedly. Managed to walk over to the top of the stairs without so much of a bite of the tongue ! Though he did grip onto the handrail till his knuckles ran white. 

Watching Butch dust something off the side of his jeans and shooing Dogmeat away from the door, before answering ; “Suz ! What a pleasant fuckin’ surprise at 10 in the morning. What brings you to our lovely hovel out in the Wastes from the all mighty 101 ?” 

There’s still animosity on Butch’s side towards the vault. Which Andrés still rolls his eyes over. But he does perk up the moment it’s known that Susie Mack’s dropped by. But god does he not want to make a scene coming down the stairs, and tries to take the first step quietly. And the next, and the next. Before he’s noticed by Wadsworth, and it must be announced that _“Oh, Master is up !”_ and how embarrassing that is, when both Butch and Susie look to him. All he can do is sheepishly smile, and wave.  
Susie looks back to Butch with an almost despairing look in her eyes ; she whispers, but he can catch some of it, _“...looks awful, is he going to be okay ?...lucky Amata isn’t here to ring your neck.”_

Now that makes him want to crawl back into bed, and stab his veins with stimpaks in some desperate attempt to get better. Not anxiety inducing at all. But he can’t help but chime in, “not dead at least.”

Butch sighs and side eyes Susie over the comment, and Susie looks stricken with guilt and embarrassment. He made a scene, even if he didn’t want to, ah fucking well. Might as well make it the rest of the way down the steps, and confront the situation rather than run and hide.

Susie gives her best sympathetic, _“you definitely don’t look like you’re not on death’s door”_ smile, and hands him a package. “Gift from some of us, but mostly Amata. She would’ve come down but since your town’s doctor—what’s his name ?” and both him and Butch chime in _“Church”_ , before she continues ; “Yeah, yes him ! Since he started coming up to the vault to help with the pregnancy, he’s recommended she just relax and stay inside where it’s not irradiated.” She nervously chuckles as she ends that sentence.

“Fair enough.” Butch shrugs. 

Andrés nods, “yeah no, I get it completely. Just glad I was able to convince him to start helping. Tell her I really—” he waves a hand around trying to think of a word better than _appreciate_. “Ah, I just—appreciate it. Yeah. Hope she’s doing alright.” 

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along. Anywho I’ll leave you guys to it, got supplies to pick up. See you two later sometime. Happy birthday Andrés.” 

They both fill up the space in front of them with a jumble of goodbyes, Butch saying _“see ya Suz.”_ and Andrés whispering, _“Thanks again.”_

He holds the box to his torso for a few moments, a little scared to open it. The conversation, despite its briefness, scared him just a bit. Unnerved. Butch and him never talk about the fact that he will be a father sometime within the next month. There are a lot of possibilities coming to mind, and they all terrify him. A moment of eye contact between them, Andrés opens his mouth, but no words come out.

Butch sighs with a smile, and helps him over to the couch. “C’mon let’s open that gift. Big man out in the Wastes, twenty years old now. Two-zero. Goodbye teenagehood, hello adulthood ! Hello fatherhood !”

It gets a tired chuckle out of him, “fresh decade, let’s see what will make it go askew when I turn 29.”

“That’s too far in the future to imagine.” Butch says as he slides a knife out of his back pocket. “Let’s focus on making sure you survive till your next birthday, yeah ?” 

He watches the knife slice through the duct tape delicately. “Sure, sure. Sounds fair.” In the back of his mind, he thinks about how the priority should be to survive till his eventual daughter’s first birthday. But it feels too awkward to say. So he just opens the box.  
A photo album is the first thing that greets him. Familiar, too familiar. The tape is faded and peeling at the corners slightly, but he can still read it clearly. _“Santos family, 2258-2268”_. He runs a finger over the tape, trying to smooth it out, before opening it. Pictures he hasn’t seen in god knows how long. Butch points out how much of a fat baby he was, which earns him a light elbow in the ribcage. But they both laugh over it regardless. It gets too painful to look at by the fourth page, and he puts it to the side, muttering under his breath, “I’ll look through it fully later.”  
Still in the box, is a typed recipe book from darling Old Lady Palmer. The sweet rolls page is dogeared. They promise each other to amicably make some later in the week, a truce in honor to their ten year old selves. The last thing waiting for him in that box, is what makes his heart race the most. They can’t really make it out so well, but they know what the photo is of. Pre-war vault technology sure can do amazing things. Butch gets up to go look for a frame somewhere around the house. Which is kind.

On the back of it, is a note from Amata.

_“Dear Andrés,  
First of all, happy birthday ! Second of all, Doctor Church said everything is going along well. ☺️ She kicks a lot at night, like you used to during sleepovers. The upside is that she does not hog the blanket at least. Though all my insides are making a formal complaint about her I’m sure, especially my bladder. I wish I could drop by and see you. But even after opening the vault, they’re making me stay here ! How unfair. But I hope you’re doing better, feeling better. I’ll twist the truth out of Susie when she comes back. Everyone treats me like I’m very fragile now, which is very annoying ! But there is a perk, being pregnant makes people very susceptible to being unable to lie to you, the moment you start to make it look like you’ll cry. It’s been a useful tool ! I’ll keep this short, so I hope you write back soon.  
Love, Amata _

He smiles to himself after reading it. Maybe now in this moment, it doesn’t feel so scary. She always knew how to comfort him. Even through writing. Now he has to plan on what to write back, shouldn’t put it off for too long. Still giddy best friends, the two of them. Even after all that’s happened. Even after the fact, that there is an unplanned child waiting to pop out. Do either of them understand the gravity of bringing life into a fucked up world like this one ? Time will only tell.

Butch returns frame in hand, his footsteps making the stairs clammer in uneven tones of creaks. Passing it into Andrés’ hands before planting himself back onto the couch. He can feel Butch’s eyes on him, as he carefully slides the photo in, then placing it on top of the family album. There is a moment of silence throughout the house, before he decides to turn to Butch and all they do is just give each other consoling smiles. And then it all just becomes so tiring for him to handle, everything. So he leans into Butch’s shoulder, face buried into a shirt that has probably gone unwashed for a week knowing Butch, but he doesn’t care. An arm is slung around him, and rubs his back in supportive silence. All he can do is let out a shaky sigh, and hold in the tears till he feels okay. Or at least, something not overwhelming. 

Eventually he pulls back, wiping the stray tear out of the corner of his eye. As Butch pats him on the shoulder before getting up once more ; “Since the gift giving is already fuckin’ happening apparently. Should’ve gotten the memo, but didn’t, cuz everyone’s a bunch of goddamn animals out here.”  
Andrés watches Butch throw his hands up in the air in sarcastic pleading, before grabbing yet another box. This time from the bookcase. How did he not notice that beforehand ? Didn’t matter now he supposes. Butch places it on his lap, gently. “Happy birthday babe.”

It’s a rather ordinary box, the faded label of some pre-war shoe company on the lid could be made out still ; in the Wasteland there is no time or luxury for wrapping gifts like there was in the vault, it’s more the thought that matters rather than the presentation now. Cautiously he picks a corner with his finger to lift it open, not that he’s scared, well nervous maybe ; the last gift he ever received from Butch on a birthday was when he was turning fifteen, and it was a crude collage made from class pictures and an old pre-war porno mag. Amata left crying, and it was all very embarrassing and cruel. But you grow up, and you move on.  
Five years have now passed, and this gift is one that makes his heart soar. It’s special for someone like him, someone with his interests. Especially out here where it’s almost forgotten, where it’s a dying thing. It was also dying in the vault, but it was more accessible at least. Perhaps because the world is much different, it’s viewed as something leisurely, maybe a waste of time. It could’ve been viewed that way even pre-war, who knows. But Andrés thinks it’s quite the opposite, it’s very needed. And outside of all the drab of being _“the kid who brought clean water to The Capital Wasteland”_ , he’s simply an artist. And that’s all he wants his purpose in life to be. To paint imagery of what is, and can be. Etc. There’s a level of modest hopefulness in that, compared to being viewed as a savior. It is one that is much more manageable for his tastes. 

And so the delicately placed row of untouched, new oil paints that sit neatly in the box, overwhelm him almost. Not in a scary way, no ; more in gratefulness fueled by disbelief. He’s speechless. No words form in his mouth, so he just bites his bottom lip. Butch affectionately calls it _“those dumb-soft puppy dog eyes”_ , whenever he’s about to cry. And he is going to cry. That is more than okay and expected. Both of them know that. But he does throw himself into Butch before he lets the tears fall. With as much strength that he can muster in his current state, he squeezes Butch’s ribcage right into his own, and till his arms feel the cartilage press in on Butch’s sides. Physical intimacy was also a language of its own, when words could not be spoken. He imagines how his tears stain into the cotton of Butch’s shirt, as he feels them fall from his cheeks, or drip down his lip along with snot. He sniffles while Butch holds him back, running fingers down his spine like the way one strums a guitar. They stay like that for a few minutes, rocking back and forth in each other’s arms. 

After the short period passes, and his throat feels open enough to finally speak, they pull back ; they’re smiling, and he nervously chuckles to himself as he wipes whatever tears are left away, Butch sneaks his thumb over to wipe away at his dribbling nose. To which Andrés jerks away, embarrassed but laughing still all the same, “Ew man.”

Butch nonchalantly wipes it on the couch fabric and shrugs, grinning away ; “What ? I love you dumbass. No tissues in the house.”

“Yeah but there’s such a thing called shirts weirdo, sweet Christ.” Andrés says as he wipes his nose clean with the hem of his shirt. “Whatever, thank you. God—fuck, how’d you even find this shit ?” 

“Oh you know, a bit of this and that. Collaboration and bribery.”

Andrés squints his eyes at that answer, “I won’t ask any further then.”

Laughter erupts between the two again, but is short lived as Butch closes the distance between them during ; cupping Andrés’ face, as if he were made out of the seafoam that builds at the shores, so very gentle. Maybe there is delicate seafoam in his DNA with all he’s been through and sacrificed for. Cushioned in the amniotic fluid of his mother’s womb first, till his cells were flooded with radiation and all he could do was collapse and gasp for breath between retching up blood and whatever was in his stomach, choking. Scary last few moments of consciousness. He thinks he saw his dad before it went black.  
Water is in everything even if it doesn’t seem like it. They’re the reason Butch’s lips are soft right now, rather than cracked like the first time they kissed. Which doesn’t seem so long ago for him, but it probably does for Butch. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking this much, it’s like his body goes on auto-pilot, while his mind wanders whenever intimacy arrives. He’s aware that his hands are sliding up Butch’s thighs so they may rest at the waist he’s become very familiar with. He likes the way his hands mold against it so perfectly, like connecting a puzzle piece. And despite all their bodies have been through, it is still a spot on Butch where the skin is soft. Then he will feel Butch’s hands drop to the side of his neck, and the pressure building in Butch’s palms will give him the dizzying high he craves. These finite moments between the bouts of sickness, make him want to scream.  
They can hear Wadsworth complain about their egregious display of PDA, neither care and never will. He lets Butch take the lead nowadays usually, never has the energy to do more, which he finds very unfortunate. Isn’t sure if it’s a side effect from being in a coma for several months, that everytime Butch climbs into his lap his cock becomes Niagra Falls within seconds. He’s only seen pictures of it in old pre-war brochures, but it looks like a nice place, if it isn’t blown up or filled with lurks. Whatever radiation has done to ruin its beauty now, he thinks. This is about as far as it always goes now, before he begins to feel sick again. Usually coughs into the kiss as their tongues lap at one another’s, forcing them to break away as he apologizes. Unfortunate routine. Last time he remembers fucking was the night before seiging Jefferson Memorial. How ceremonious. Now whenever his heart beats too fast he gets nauseous. 

Hands pat at his chest sympathetically. “You’re good, you’re fine. Got too caught up, not even noon yet—shit.” Butch sighs, and pushes some stray hairs out of his eyes, murmering to himself, “need a trim.”

He always feels awful afterwards, each time. All he is now is some incompetent fool with a body that’s fighting its own inevitable destruction from the inside out. So he simply follows. “You think I need one ?”

Butch runs his hands through his messy brunette locks, untangling each small knot of hairs with his fingers gently. Feels like a dog being caressed for comfort. “Been a few months, probably, always got such a fuckin’ mess of hair.”

Andrés shrugs, “thank my dad for his genetics.”

“To be fair, he got to his fifties without a hint of balding. Unlike every other old fuck in that vault.”

“He was only 51.”

Quiet fills the space between them now. Always a conversation topic that leads to a dead end. Something Butch isn’t emotionally equipped to handle ; given that he never knew his dad, and had a tumultous relationship with his mother. And well, Andrés killed his mother being born, and the trauma of everything surrounding his father was something he was still processing. Baggage galore. Mommy issues, daddy issues. Would the generational trauma continue ? They both wondered in the back of their minds, to themselves. It wouldn’t be something they’d voice, just a whispering anxiety. Neither wanted it to, but it was confusing territory that neither knew how to traverse. Lifelong journey of ups and downs, like everything else. That was his biggest fear, if he were to be a good dad. But that’s just not something you ever know, even as you are one. Raising a child is the most powerful fucking thing someone can do, and he has no plans at all. Well one actually, just one. _“Don’t fuck it up.”_

Even as he feels Butch’s weight lift off him, he stares into space, eyes vacant. Thoughts scrambling through his synapses, always so good at overwhelming himself into paralyzation. Butch has gotten used to it by now. In his peripheral vision, he sees Butch pace around their kitchen, yap to Wadsworth about something ; can hear the slight agitation in Butch’s voice, tone makes his voice just slightly more gruff. Thinks it’s hot. Suddenly however, Butch is snapping right into his face to grab his attention, startling him just enough for him to slightly jump back like a kitten encountering something unfamiliar. 

“Wanna go sit outside for a smoke break ?” Butch asks. Even though their hands are already locked, and they both know the answer.

* * *

It’s cloudy, which is not unusual. His favorite type of weather is when the clouds are so dark they look like they’ve been swirled with tyrian purple. And tyrian purple is one of his favorite colors, simply on the principle that he read one time in an art textbook it was deemed the color of “clotted blood” by the Greeks and Romans. Had a knack for small, macabre details like that.  
Overcast days bring refreshing whips of wind, a smell of distant raindrops. The only time he ever feels cleansed. Radiation storms aren’t common here anymore, but he’s heard they’re still frequent in other places. Wonders if there’s a dangerous beauty to them. Glancing over at Butch, watching smoke seep from his mouth and curl into delicate wisps before disolving into the wind, is one of those dangerous beauties. Is it doctor recommended that he smoke cigarettes despite his body’s internal fight against decay ? Probably not no, but what does it matter. One of the few things that makes him feel normal. So when Butch takes his last drag for the next few minutes, he takes it with no regrets in mind. No regrets as he holds it to his lips and starts with a small drag. Routine to pass it back and forth till it’s finished, and maybe they’ll have another or more depending on their moods for that day. Just a calm way to pass the time, and observe people in town. Sometimes they’ll tend to the plants they’re growing. Seeds from Oasis, gifts. Packed in cracked terracotta pots they’d found in an abandoned pre-war hardware store one day. His favorite is a mint plant that recently sprouted, which he named “Dorothy”. Butch caught him talking to it one time, which was rather embarrassing. 

Butch taps his fingers against the pack of cigarettes, pre-war brand called _Lucky Strike_. The only one they decided tasted the best even after two centuries. “You thought of a name yet ?”

Unexpected question, he can assume what it’s about, but he plays dumb. “Name for what ?”

He can feel Butch’s eyes roll and bore into him. Obvious annoyance at the obvious pussyfooting. “Your kid dumbass. The one that’s popping out in a few weeks.”

There is only one response he can manage. A shrug. Which makes Butch roll his eyes even more dramatically, with a sigh to pair with it. The kind where it so obviously says _“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”_ without needing to be spoken. Felt like he was getting scolded. But he just didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know how to talk about it. There was this discomfort, it was something that was hard to imagine becoming reality. But it was quickly approaching, and he certainly couldn’t run away from it. 

Eventually he manages to give a legitimate answer, after spending a minute running circles in his head. “She wants it to start with an A. Like ours, cute I guess huh. Cuts out the rest of the letters in the alphabet at least.” Anxiously stubs the last bit of their first cigarette out onto their patio table, signaling Butch to light another one. 

“Better start a list huh ?” Butch mumbles, flick of the lighter accompanying his voice. “I mean if you couldn’t pull out when you were fuckin’ her, you’re definitely not pulling out of the dad shit. Just be unfair to both her and the kid.”

All he can do is nod. Scratching at his scalp as a way to relieve the conversation anxiety. “I know, I know.” Butch always knows when to kick him in the ass, emotionally or physically. Always needed, despite how much he loathes it. But it keeps him humble, and grounded in reality rather than the anxious fantasy his brain creates.  
Out of his peripheral he sees Butch’s hand craning the cigarette out to him. Takes it without a second thought ; and leans back into the chair, always slightly digs into his back when he does. But he doesn’t care today. Inhales too fast accidentally and coughs, but he waves Butch away. He can take care of himself, doesn’t need a nanny for a bad drag. At least he hopes so. 

Pounds his fist lightly against his chest, wheezing out one last time, it’d be embarrassing to do in front of anyone else but Butch. “Angelina seems like a nice name. Maybe I’ll suggest that.” He hoarsely croaks out before clearing his throat once more. 

“Bit corny to call your kid something akin to ‘angel’ in this day and age, but not bad, your kid anyhow.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But you’re at least right about the last part, dipshit.”

Bickering between them isn’t unusual, sometimes it’s like they revert back to their old routine of growing up in the vault. Having a pissing contest with one another, till they sit in their thoughts for a moment and realize there is no fucking point to continuing it. All they have is each other now.

Some would say _“can’t be helped”_ but they feel it can be. Sure they were raised with rather different parental ideals, which shaped how they interacted with the environment around them, that was already shaping them in a repressed manner. However there is always the effort to put forward, if you know you can be better. Sometimes it feels futile, though most of the time, especially in quiet moments of realization, it’s all worth it. 

Andrés realizes now, that his father was only human. One who was trying to make the best of a situation, while figuring it out at the same time. No one is perfect, and there’s a certain type of peace you get from realizing that about the person who raised you. There’s a lot of regret with how detached he became after they found each other at Vault 112. Or rather, when he found his dad. In those few weeks, it felt like he didn’t know who the man before him ever was. Sure he looked like his dad, and carried the same name _James Santos_ ; but there was no recognition of a father, just someone who left him to the wolves. Anger was stirring under all that detachment, but all he did was bury it. And then all he was left with after his dad’s death was ultimately fruitless anger in a whirlpool of unending depression. It felt like the emotional equivalent of drowning. Maybe he also forced himself to find peace, because there’s no point in yelling at a grave.

Sometimes they discuss their parents, usually when it’s late and they’ve already had a few beers to loosen up how closely they hold all things vulnerable to them. Points of weakness. They knew of each other’s homelives due to the vault, maybe not well, but gossip always traveled around. Always a seed of ugly that spreads, even underground. There’s still that ache of guilt for what he said to Butch at his tenth birthday party. Even if Butch was acting like an ass, kids are cruel to kids, and then they grow up. Usually. They’re still growing up though it seems. Their parents were amicable, they weren’t, but the grown ups were. Andrés wasn’t the type of kid to be involved at his dad’s work, maybe when he was a toddler and his father let him draw under the desk. But beyond the awkward check ups as he got older, and unmemorable speech bordering lecture every time he complained about how Wally twisted his arm under the desk for not showing his test to cheat off, as if he’d even studied himself. Leaving his arm to be wrapped in kinesiology tape, and his dad to make it even more messy by confronting Allen Mack. Civically, of course. But it made him feel like a baby, point blank. Didn’t help the teasing either, _“daddy’s boy”_ still plays over in his head. 

* * *

There is a significant memory though, in the later years of school. Butch would be the one to remember it better. Only gotten snippets of the reality of the event from Butch himself. Andrés admits he only heard gossip, and what he could eavesdrop from Jonas and his father afterwards.

Ellen DeLoria is imperfect, just as James Santos was. Both were fond of alcohol, but at very different quantities in relation to very different emotional stressors. Like metronomes at very different tempos. Butch cares for her still, despite the circumstances of how he was raised. He can’t explain it, maybe he just doesn’t know how to. It’s tricky, like most everything else in life. Sometimes he’ll ask Suzie how she’s doing, but doesn’t send his regards. It’s a slippery slope. Spikes of anxiety hit him, if he thinks of the possibility where Suzie talks to her and if she asks about him. Maybe it’s just a hypocritical thing, he wants to know about her, but he’d prefer she’d not know about him. Boundaries.  
The truth is he’s scared to end up like her. So far gone down the drink, that it’s like talking to a shell of a person. He hates vodka due to her. Which is maybe the one positive to being raised by her. Doesn’t put a dent in the amount of negatives though.

Now that he’s left the vault, he isn’t sure if he ever really had a mother. Just an alcoholic who taught him that affection only came after getting what she wanted, manipulation was the core of their relationship. Grew up too fast because of her, acted out because he didn’t want to. Hated that pitying look he got from all the adults around him. At least the other kids were scared of him, or listened to him. Except for two. Which pissed him off more than anything growing up. There was some guilt in it, but he sometimes wished he never had a mother, like Amata and Andrés. Jealous about it, but he’d never admit it. Seemed like they’d made peace with it, because they had each other, and that bond over it. And he wanted that peace, so badly.

The date is fuzzy, but in early morning hours, he woke up to the sound of pathetic rasping. Thought it was their vents giving out one final hurrah before Stanley would need to come fix them again. For whatever umpteenth time that year. Usually he’d slam his fist against them till it’d quiet down. It’d be a problem for future Butch. But he’d gotten up only to find his mother choking on her own vomit in her sleep. He didn’t know what to do for a few moments, and he just watched her chest heave and throat twitch up and down. There is a distinct feeling of tears forming in his eyes, and wanting to let her die ; so she wouldn’t have to put herself through so much suffering, and selfishly, so he wouldn’t have to deal with it either. But he didn’t. And he frantically turned her onto her side. Everything afterwards just kinda blurs together. The next thing he remembers is sitting in the clinic, while his mother’s stomach was being pumped in the next room. And a cup of water being handed to him, but he can’t remember by who. It’s all very fuzzy, maybe for good measure. 

No alcohol though for today even with the celebration, so no reminiscing on traumas. It was for the best, neither of them handled alcohol well either way. All they’d ever done previous times was hurt each other’s feelings, and end up with hangovers that’d take a few days to get over. But the both of them had a fondness for bars, the insular feeling of them. Could easily block out the rest of the world, and just focus on whatever Three Dog was crooning about on the radio and sip on barely tolerable tasting beer. Other than that, they just remember their first kiss happening after leaving The Muddy Rudder. Which might be the actual reason neither wants to admit to.

* * *

Quiet hangs between them for a bit. Andrés watches the ashes of their most recently smoked cigarette disintegrate into their ever growing pile on the ashtray. Reaching over he smooths it out with a finger, it’s a monotonously soothing act to do. Sometimes he draws little designs in with a small twig he can find, or the handle of any piece of cutlery when they decide to eat outside. He remembers looking inside a book at the Arlington Library—when it was just him and Dogmeat, and reading something about zen gardens. Pre war life had a lot of serenity to it, outside of the fact it ended in nuclear devastation. He wondered from time to time, if they were still something people did, or left behind due to the wreckage of the world now. He swipes the pieces of ash sticking to his finger onto his thigh. It’s just something he’ll never know, and he’s not okay with it really. But he’s accepted it. Life has changed him that way.  
A raindrop plunks onto the evenly grazed ash pile. And then another, causing it to change color into a murky charcoal almost. It makes him curious if he can possibly use it on paper or canvas to draw with. Smear with his fingers, it’d be interesting. Something to try when he’s not so fucked. But his attention from the idea is sidetracked when another drop of rain plops directly onto his head, causing him to directly look up into the gloomy sky. 

Makes him remember the first time he encountered rain last year. Nineteen years without it, it’s a considerably special moment for a vault dweller of any age he’s sure. Clouds were so dark he thought it could almost be night time. The reverberant thunder that came before the sudden rush of rain was one of the most terrifying sounds he’d ever heard in his life. Next to The Enclave’s vertibirds. So stunned by the rain pelting every inch of his body that he just ended up standing in the middle of a cracked road like a dunce. It was the first time he ever felt truly clean in the wasteland. Reached beyond his skin, down into the bloody chambers of his heart and slid through the root system of his veins. Maybe his soul too, if he has one.  
It rained the rest of that day ; and when he was able to find a lone neighborhood with houses abandoned to the inches of dust and rusted memories in the unkempt yards, he kicked one of their front doors in and took shelter. He woke up the next morning with the beginning to a nasty cold, and his clothes were still damp from the rain. So he searched through dressers long untouched, and wore an ill fitting shirt and pair of jeans. Wondered how long it had been since they’d been worn, in happier times certainly. Now all they carried was a smell of dust.

Another familiar snap of fingers drags him back into reality. Butch is already up and grumbling over the beginning notes of the rain by the time he’s gathered hold of his place in the world again.  
Butch opens the front door and turns towards him, a silent beckon to hurry on and get inside. They hold eye contact for a moment before he can tell that Butch is getting agitated with waiting.

His eyes draw back up to the sky as the drizzle begins to gain another chord with the thunder that follows. “I think my parents are saying happy birthday.”

Maybe his intuition was wrong just this once. It wouldn’t be such a bad birthday after all.


End file.
